“Come for a walk, Mike,” said the old man. “Give me your arm, my boy. I have been busy over your affairs during the morning, and the fact is, that woman’s sweet champagne has got into my head. I can’t imagine how it is that women never know the difference between dry champagne and sweet. I shall have a bilious attack after this, as sure as fate.”

“Where in the world have you been, dad?” said the lieutenant, looking with apprehension at his father’s flushed face.

“Why, my boy,” said the Major, “I have been eating the most abominable lunch I ever tasted in the whole course of my life at Mrs Fortescue’s.”

“At Mrs Fortescue’s?” said the young man. “You surely have not been there about – about Florence and me!”

“Yes, I have, Mike, and you can’t blame me; and I have got the most satisfactory information for you. The girl’s income will run into thousands, my boy – yes, into thousands.” Now, of course, Lieutenant Reid was delighted to hear this, but he felt all the same annoyed at his father’s lack of circumspection in going to see Mrs Fortescue.

“The news will be all over the place,” he said. “That woman is the most inveterate gossip in Langdale. She will tell all her friends just what has happened, and if Flo chooses to give me up, you will be the one to blame.”

“Oh, she won’t give you up. She loves you dearly, my boy; and no other, no other,” said the Major. “I really congratulate you, Mike; and if there is any possible way in which I can help you at the present moment, you have but to command it. Some thousands a year! Three, four, five – I should not be the least surprised if it was five thousand a year. The girls have been brought up as if they might expect that income at the very least. You’re a lucky dog – a very lucky dog, Mike.”

Chapter Eight
A Tempting Tea

Mrs Fortescue’s morning had been so exciting that she really could not settle down at searching through her house linen for possible or impossible holes during the afternoon. It was her bounden duty to go to see the Arbuthnots. She ought to visit them after the delightful dinner they had given her on Christmas Day. Accordingly, putting on her most becoming dress, she started off between three and four o’clock in the direction of their house. She must meet the train which would bring her darlings back to her between six and seven, but during the intervening hours she might spend her time quite comfortably with Susie, chatting to her, of course – not on the subject, but on every possible subject which led towards it, approaching it, as it were, by every devious path within her knowledge.

Susie was upright, honest as the day. Mrs Fortescue was a crooked-minded woman; but very straight people are, as a rule, apt not to see the crookedness of their friends. Susie liked every one at Langdale, just as much as the Colonel liked them. She was heartily pleased to see her friend, and told her so, frankly. Susie was not wearing her grey barège, and the supporting silk lining could not therefore sustain her; but she was very neatly dressed in an old black serge which she had altered with her own clever fingers, and which fitted her plump form to perfection. Round her neck she were a neat linen collar, and had linen cuffs round her plump wrists. Her hands were ringless and very fat. Her face, always highly coloured, was a little redder than usual, because she had been taking advantage of the fine morning and spending it in the garden. She loved gardening, and there was not a day, either summed or winter, which did not give her something to do in her favourite employment.

“Now,” she said, when she saw Mrs Fortescue; “this is good! You have come to tea, of course. I will order some hot cakes. They can be made in a twinkling. I have desired cook to do them from a new recipe which I happened to cut out of a penny paper last week. How nice you look, Mrs Fortescue! and how are the darling girls? What a decided beauty Florence is turning into!”

“Of course you know,” said Mrs Fortescue, throwing meaning into her tone, “that both girls went to London this morning to spend the day with their guardian and lawyer, Mr Timmins, of Pye’s Court.”

“No, I didn’t know it,” said Susie. Then she added, seeing that something was expected of her: “Did they go alone?”

“Well, they went together first-class, and were met at the station by Mr Timmins’ confidential clerk. They are coming back to night.”

“Dear children!” said Susie, in her sweet voice. “I am so fond of them both.”

“And they are fond of you, Susie.”

“I wonder what they will do in the future,” said Susie. “Is it really true that they have left school?”

“Yes, it is quite true,” said Mrs Fortescue. “I am sorry,” answered Susie.

“Sorry? What do you mean? Florence is eighteen and Brenda nineteen.”

“Yes,” said Susie; “but one only begins to appreciate school at that age. Before, one is too young and lessons seem a useless drudgery. One’s mind is not big enough or broad enough to take in the advantages of learning. It is a great, great pity that Mr Timmins does not give them two more years at Newnham or Girton or some such place.”

“Oh, my dear?” said Mrs Fortescue, throwing up her hands. “How can you say anything so horrible! Newnham or Girton! They would be simply ruined; and men do so hate learned women.”

“Do they?” said Susie. She paused reflectively. “I have known one or two,” she said, after a pause, “whom men have loved very much. I don’t think it is the learning part that men hate; it is something else which now and then the learned woman possesses. Perhaps it is pride in her own attainments. Surely no sensible man can dislike a woman for knowing things.”

“They do – they all do,” said Mrs Fortescue. “My dear late lamented did. He told me he could not even have looked at me if I had had a smattering of Latin or Greek; and I have heard many other men say the same.”

“Then they must be quite worthless,” said Susie, “and we needn’t bother about them. Ah! and here comes the tea. Put it here, please, Peters.”

The servant arranged the very tempting tea on a little table, and Susie stood up to perform her duties as hostess. She was certainly remarkably plain, but, somehow, no one ever thought her plain when they looked at her, for goodness shone out of her eyes and seemed to radiate from her stout little person. Mrs Fortescue was quite ready to do justice to the excellent tea, the rich cream, the plum cake, and that new recipe for hot cakes which Susie’s cook had so successfully carried out and which resulted in such appetising, melting morsels, that the good woman was consoled for the loss of one of her few bottles of champagne, and for the fact that she knew very well that Major Reid had hated his lunch.

“Do you know,” she said, as she finished her meal, “that I never enjoy my tea anywhere as I do here. Besides, I had a hot lunch to-day. Who do you think came and had lunch with me?”

“How can I guess?” said Susie. “I suppose you were all alone, as the girls were in London.”

“No: I was not alone. I had a visitor – a man.”

“A man?” said Susie, opening her round eyes.

“Yes; no less a person than Major Reid. Now, what do you think of that?”

“Oh; I like him very much,” said Susie.

“Do you, now? I wonder why?”

“Why,” said Susie, “because I think he is nice. He is very poor, of course, but he makes the best of his poverty, and he is very intelligent and fond of reading.”

“Perhaps you like Michael too,” said Mrs Fortescue.

“I am exceedingly fond of Michael,” said Susie. “He is a dear boy.”

“A boy?” said Mrs Fortescue. “Do you call him that? He is a man; he is twenty-four.”

“I call twenty-four quite a boy,” answered Susie. “Mike is a great friend of mine: we have always been chums, and always will be, for that matter.”

Mrs Fortescue sat quite still. She longed to add something further; but Susie sat smiling to herself, for she remembered Michael’s request that he might take Florence into dinner on Christmas night, and she also remembered the fact that he had walked through the snow and slush in order to secure his heart’s desire. It would in Susie’s eyes be a delightful match if Mike and Florence married. But she was not going to speak of it. Mrs Fortescue’s small black eyes sparkled.

“Well, well,” she said; “we all have our tastes. I will own that in a place like Langdale one is apt to appreciate any fairly good-looking young man. But out in the great world where one meets them in shoals – simply in shoals – a person like Michael Reid would not have much chance.”

“Do you think so?” said Susie very quietly. “I am sorry for the great world, then.”

“You know nothing about it, Susie.”

“That is true,” answered Susie, who might have retorted, “No more do you,” but it was not her habit ever to say anything unkind.

“Well,” said Mrs Fortescue, “I suppose I must be going. I have to meet the dear girls, and they will have lots to tell me. In all probability, Susie, I shall be leaving Langdale myself this spring, for no doubt Mr Timmins will wish me to undertake the chaperonage of my two sweet girls until they marry. I look to their both making great matches, with their wealth and good looks; for they are both good-looking. They ought to do exceedingly well in the marriage market.”

“If you mean by that,” said Susie, the colour rushing into her face, “that they will marry men worthy of them – I mean good in the best sense of the word – good, and true and brave, then I trust they will. But if you mean anything else, Mrs Fortescue; if you mean men who will seek them for their wealth – for I presume they are rich, although really I know nothing about it, and what is more, I don’t care – then I sincerely trust they won’t marry that sort of man.”

“Oh,” said Mrs Fortescue, “you don’t understand – you don’t care whether they are rich or not – ”

“Not one scrap,” said Susie. “How can riches add to the brightness of Florence’s eyes or the affection of Brenda’s manner? But if riches make them a little more comfortable, I hope they will have sufficient, though we don’t require much money, do we, Mrs Fortescue? I know that is not what the world would call rich,” (Mrs Fortescue hated Susie for making this remark) “and most certainly father and I are not. We just contrive and contrive, and always have enough for a jolly Christmas dinner when we can really entertain our friends. I don’t believe any two people in all the world are happier than my darling dad and myself, and it doesn’t come from riches, for we have to be very careful. Oh, no; rich people are not the happiest, I do assure you on that point.”

Mrs Fortescue could not help saying, “I do not agree with you, Susie,” and she could not help giving a contemptuous glance at the old-fashioned, very plump little figure with the red face and honest round eyes. But having eaten as much as she could of Susie’s very excellent food, and found it quite impossible to draw Susie Arbuthnot into any conversation of what she considered a truly interesting nature, she left the house and amused herself doing some shopping until it was time to go to the railway station to meet the girls.

There Florence alone confronted her – Florence, with a white and anxious face, although all trace of that fit of weeping which had overcome her when she parted from Brenda had disappeared from her features.

“Why, Flo – Flo, darling! Where is your sister? Where is my Brenda?”

“Brenda is staying for a few days with Lady Marian Dixie.”

“But I knew nothing of this. She did not take up any clothes.”

“We are to send her some. Mr Timmins has sent his clerk down with me, and he is coming back to the house with us now in order that I may pack some of Brenda’s things and send them to town by him. If we are quick we shall catch the half-past seven train, and she will get what things she most requires by to-night.”

“I have a cab waiting for you, my love. This is very unexpected. Did you say Lady Marian Dixie?”

“Yes,” said Florence; “an old friend of my mother’s.”

“Well, you will have a great deal to tell me,” said Mrs Fortescue; “and how very tired you look, dear.”

“I am not specially tired, but I should like to get home as fast as possible in order to give Andrews a trunk full of clothes to take back to Brenda.”

“Oh, surely Brenda won’t be away so long as that.”

Florence made no reply. She motioned to Andrews to get on the box beside the driver, and they returned to Mrs Fortescue’s house almost in silence. Mrs Fortescue felt that something had happened, but did not dare to inquire. She kept repeating to herself at intervals during their drive back —

“Lady Marian Dixie – a friend of the girls’ mother! It sounds very nice; still, it is queer. Surely, surely Mr Timmins could not be so mad as to allow Lady Marian to conduct the girls about in London society! It would be too cruel to me, after all I have done for them.”

When they reached the house, the cabman was desired to wait. Florence ran up to their room and, with Mrs Fortescue’s help, filled a trunk with Brenda’s smartest things. Mrs Fortescue talked all the time, but Florence was almost silent. The trunk was speedily packed, and the old clerk took it back to London with him.

Then the two ladies, the old and the young, went into the drawing-room and faced each other.

Chapter Nine
Mrs Fortescue Seeks Enlightenment

“Now, Florence,” said Mrs Fortescue, “I suppose you have got something to tell me.”

“I have,” answered Florence. She spoke almost flippantly. “I am very, very hungry. I hope you have a nice dinner, a specially nice dinner for us both to enjoy together to-night, Mrs Fortescue.”

“I have got a duck,” said Mrs Fortescue; “and ducks at present are exceedingly expensive; but I never think of expense when I am providing luxuries for you and your dear sister. You deserve all the good things of life, my darlings, and I trust they will fall to your portion. Nevertheless, I think, I do think you might have confided in me.”

Florence coloured and then turned pale. She wondered if anyone had, in some miraculous way, become acquainted with the fact of their own great poverty; but no, the whole thing seemed impossible. Florence herself had been careful not to breathe a word on the subject, and she was pretty sure that Brenda had not done so. What, therefore, could Mrs Fortescue mean? As to the other matter – that which related to Lieutenant Reid, it is sad to have to confess that Florence, for the time being, had forgotten the gallant lieutenant.

“I am hungry!” she said; “and I would rather talk to you after dinner than before: that is, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all, dearest,” said Mrs Fortescue. “You would like to go upstairs and change your travelling dress. I will send Bridget in to help you.”

“Thank you,” said Florence.

She was about to refuse this offer, but suddenly remembered that all her dresses fastened behind, and that she could not manage this part of her toilet now that Brenda was away. She ran upstairs at once, locked her door and flung herself on her knees by her bedside. There she uttered a strangled sort of prayer to God to give her help; but she had not been more than a minute on her knees before Bridget’s knock was heard. Florence went to the door and opened it.

Bridget was always respectful to the Misses Heathcote, for they were liberal with their tips and were, she considered, exceedingly nice, lively young ladies, who made the house pleasant and enabled her to stay on with Mrs Fortescue. She would long ago have left that good lady but for the fact that the Misses Heathcote came to Langdale in the holidays, and made the place bright and cheerful, and caused her mistress to provide the best food, and, in short, to give every one in the house a good time all round.

“I have come to help you, miss,” said Bridget now. “You will be that lonely without dear Miss Brenda. We none of us knew she was going to stay in town when you both left this morning.”

“Oh, it’s all right, Biddie dear,” said Florence. “Brenda had to stay: I don’t want to talk too much about it, for it makes me so very sad.”

“Then it ain’t all right, if it makes you sad,” said Bridget.

“We have all of us to bear pain in our turn, haven’t we?” said Florence, looking full at the elderly servant with her bright eyes.

“I suppose so,” said Bridget, who felt interested in this talk and inclined to concur. “My poor mother, who died a very lingering and painful death, always said that pain was the will of Providence. I couldn’t see it, miss; but I suppose she was right.”

“Yes, Bridget,” said Florence; “she was quite right. Please fasten me into my white dress – this one, please. Thank you so very much.”

“We have had quite an entertaining day,” said Bridget. “You wouldn’t believe it – but we had company to lunch.”

“Company?” said Florence, in some astonishment. “What do you mean?”

“No less a person than Major Reid.” Florence felt herself colouring violently.

“He came comparatively early,” continued Bridget, “and had a long talk with my missis, and afterwards stayed to lunch. I can’t say there was much for lunch – only the mutton bone and some fried potatoes; but my missis got up a bottle of champagne from the wine cellar, and the Major drank three or four glasses. He was very friendly indeed with my missis, and seemed a good bit excited – indeed, they both were.”

Florence longed to ask more questions, but refrained, and after a time, Bridget left the room. Then the girl stood with her hands clasped together gazing straight before her into the long mirror which was fastened to the wall. She saw a very charming reflection there. The form of a girl, with the extreme grace of youth and altogether well made, stood upright before her. She saw sparkling eyes, and a wealth of hair and delicate colour on the softly rounded cheeks. She knew that she was looking at herself, and it occurred to her all of a sudden that there was no wonder at all that Michael Reid should love her just for herself and not in the very least for her gold. Was not her face her fortune? She now felt quite gay and happy. She forgot her loneliness with regard to her sister and ran downstairs humming a gay song.

Dinner was announced almost immediately, and the two ladies went into the dining-room and partook of it. Florence was really hungry and enjoyed the carefully prepared meal. Mrs Fortescue watched her as she ate. At last the dinner came to an end and they both retired to the drawing-room.

“Now,” said Mrs Fortescue, the moment the door had closed behind the two, “I must ask you, Florence, to enlighten me. There is a great deal you ought to tell me. I have been kept in the dark too long. What arrangements has Mr Timmins arrived at with regard to your future?”

“He said he would write to you. I expect you will hear from him in the morning.”

“But you can tell me, darling: I need not be kept on tenter-hooks until the morning.”

“I would much, much rather he told you himself,” said Florence, moving restlessly in her choir.

“But why, dearest? Did he ask you not to tell me?”

“He did not exactly do that; but he said he would write. From his whole tone I know he expects me to say nothing until you hear from him.”

Then Florence got up. She approached Mrs Fortescue’s side, and bending down, kissed the good lady on her forehead.

“You have been very, very kind to Brenda and me,” she said; “and we will never forget it, never.”

“I trust indeed you won’t, my dear,” said Mrs Fortescue. “It is my wish to continue my kindness to you both. And now, Florence, I have something to say to you on my own account. A little bird has told me a secret with regard to you. Of course, dear – with regard to Mr Timmins, he must please himself as to whether he chooses to let me know what our future plans are to be, although I maintain that if I am kept much longer in the dark, I shall think he is not treating me fairly. But as to you and your dear sister – you, at least are different. Florence, I did not think, I could not imagine that you would have a love affair – you, such a child as you are too! and keep it dark from me.”

Florence found herself blushing very hotly.

“Who told you that I had a love affair?” she said.

“My dear Florence, there is not the least manner of use in your hiding the matter from me any longer. We at Langdale know each other so well that we are, in fact, like one big family. What affects one affects all. The sorrows of one try the hearts of all the others. The joys of one equally rejoice the hearts of all the others. In your happiness, my darling, the rest of us rejoice. It was Major Reid who told me; he came himself to-day to speak of his son’s attachment to you. He was delighted himself; he has a great, great affection and a deep admiration for you, Florence; and I – I also think Michael an excellent young man.”

“Oh – do you?” said Florence. “Do you, really?”

She had meant to go back to her seat at the opposite side of the hearth, but instead of doing this, she now dropped on her knees close to Mrs Fortescue. She had never felt so near that good lady before – so drawn to her, so part of her: in fact, the one comfort at present in her desolate position was the knowledge of Michael’s love. She must, of course, not mention her own great poverty, but she could at least listen to what Mrs Fortescue had to say about him.

“I don’t mind your knowing at all,” she said. “I felt shy about speaking to you, but as the Major has called, it makes all the difference. And he is not angry – really? You are quite, quite sure?”

“Sure? my dear child. I am certain the Major is delighted, Florence. He loves you as a daughter. But now, take this little chair close to me and tell me all you have to say.”

Florence found that she had not a great deal to say. There was something about Mrs Fortescue which seemed to shut her up. The first dawning of that young love which had awakened in her heart did not respond to the touch of the eager, selfish, worldly woman. Of course she did love – yes, she was certain now she loved Michael; but she hated talking about him. She would rather put him in the background, and when Mrs Fortescue – instead of answering her many questions with regard to the young man’s youth, his early history, his dead mother, his father when he was young, and those various things about his early life which Mrs Fortescue knew and Florence did not – preferred to talk about the girl’s own future, the way Michael and she would live (as Michael would probably leave the Army), and how nice it would be to settle in Langdale, Florence found a wall of separation rising up between herself and her quondam friend. She pleaded fatigue at last, and went to her room, where she spent a great part of the night in secret tears. For, notwithstanding the fact that the Major had visited Mrs Fortescue, and that Michael himself had told Florence that he would love her just the same if she were as poor as a church mouse, Florence felt certain that neither the Major nor Mrs Fortescue thought of her as a desirable wife for the young man except as a rich heiress.

“Well,” she said to herself finally, as she turned on her pillow for the fifth time, “if, after hearing everything, he cares for me, I will stick to him and work hard to save a little money until we can marry; but if he doesn’t – oh, oh – ”

Florence would not allow herself even to finish the latter thought which came into her mind.